Reckless
by laynee
Summary: Teenagers do dumb, dangerous things; but it wasn't what it seemed. Something dark was making them do those things, and they were dying as a result. The Winchesters have to figure it out before it takes one of their own. Sam, 17 angst/hurt; Dean, 21, John.
1. Unprepared

Still don't own Supernatural. Not suing would be appreciated. I have no money, I promise, so please just let me use the brilliant characters.

There's very little fluff in the beginning of this one, lots of angst though, so that's always good.

Thanks for reading and reviewing.

Sam is 17, and Dean is 21

-/\-SN-/\-

Sam dumped out his backpack on his bed, his history book fell to the floor and he kicked it across the room. Dean stood in the doorway, amused and out of the danger path. John passed in the hall behind Dean.

"Ten minutes." He called before the front door slammed.

Sam pulled a well-organized box from under his bed and put a few carefully chosen weapons in the backpack. Dean could tell from the hard lines across Sam's shoulders that his younger brother was only just containing his anger. He had to admit, Sam was getting better at hiding it.

He turned, backpack in hand. "What?"

Sometimes.

Dean held his hands up. "Easy, Gandhi."

Sam glared at him and tugged the zipper closed. He pushed past Dean without a word and slammed the front door on the way out. Dean grabbed his bag and followed his family out the door.

In all honesty Dean could, for once, understand why Sam was angry with their dad. Sam had a project due, was going to meet this girl that he's sort of had a crush on, at the library to work on it; and then their dad put his plans on the table. When that happened, all other plans were shoved aside. Dean's plans revolved around hustling pool in bars, so no big loss there, but he knew that Sam had something important shoved aside, like always. Sam being liked was high on his list, like it never was on Dean's. Dean could care less if he was liked, by anyone but Sam.

Sam brooded in the back seat, eyes dark with anger and focused too hard on the world outside the car window. Either John didn't notice, or he had decided not to step onto that live grenade.

"So, you want to fill us in?" Dean asked with a hint of a smirk.

John glanced over. "Just looking." He pulled a stack of newspaper clippings from the notebook and handed it to Dean.

Dean turned, took a breath. "Sam, you want to look through these with me?"

"Nope." He kept his eyes on the window.

It's not like Dean didn't see it coming. "Well, it might be above your reading level anyway." He was taking a risk, teasing his brother at that moment.

Sam's eyes glanced over to Dean, murder written in their depths, before he turned back to the window. Could have been worse, Dean turned to the papers and skimmed them among the notes John had added.

"There's an abandoned graveyard I want to look at." John glanced in the mirror at Sam. "From what I've found out, most of the high school kids go there. Dares and such. You heard anything about it, Sam?"

"Nothing you don't already know." He muttered, then under his breath so John wouldn't hear. "Though, actually meeting and talking with people would be nice."

Dean heard him, glanced over at their dad to make sure he didn't, and sighed. Yeah, tonight was going to be a ton of fun. Would it have been so hard for John to let Sam go to his little library meeting, talk to a girl, be a normal teenage boy for once? Maybe it would have broken some of the tension between Sam and John, though Dean figured they would have just found something else to fight about three minutes later. John didn't understand Sam, and Dean wished he didn't sometimes. Understanding Sam meant being referee, retaining wall, and double agent; all things that could blow up in his face if he didn't balance it right.

John pulled off the road and climbed out of the car, Sam and Dean behind him. Sam pulled a knife, holy water and a gun from the bag. The rest he left in the car. Between the three of them, they could pretty much handle anything that they found. At least when Sam was pissed off like that, he usually focused on whatever was going on just for a distraction.

Sam tripped over an overgrown headstone. He kicked it out of frustration and Dean bit back a sarcastic comment. Sam glanced back at him as though daring his brother to say anything. Dean had made the mistake only once of saying the first comeback that came to mind when Sam's eyes were hard like that; his jaw was bruised for three days.

John stopped and glanced back at his sons. "Keep watch here, I'm going to get a closer look at the mausoleum."

Dean nodded and Sam pretended like he hadn't heard. Sam kicked a lose rock at a headstone.

"I wouldn't go around disrespecting the graves so obviously, Sammy." Dean leaned on a nearby headstone.

Sam looked over at him, his jaw clenched. "There's no point to me being here."

Dean had to agree, but wouldn't admit it. Its not like they were hunting tonight, just scoping out the possibilities. Dean thought back to the newspaper clippings. A string of teenage deaths had occurred, seven in the last two months. All seemed to be the result of stupid dares, but John had thought otherwise. Dean was starting to agree, the last death was only a few days ago. The boy was found in the river, apparently he dove in from the dam, and everyone knew the water wasn't deep enough or the weather warm enough for such a stunt. The first death was found in the cemetery, so that's where the Winchesters would start.

A girl's muffled giggle drew the attention of both Sam and Dean. Automatically they dropped behind headstones for cover. A teenage boy and girl came from behind a further headstone, his hand gripped her arm. They laughed and tried to be silent with a half empty bottle of vodka in her hand.

The boy tripped and she dropped next to him. "Derek." She laughed.

"Truth'r dare?" He slurred.

Silence, besides the rustle of them as they tried to untangle their drunken limbs from the grass.

"Lisa." He took a drink from the bottle. "S'not a hard question, truth'r dare?"

Dean noticed Sam tense beside him.

"Dare." She took the bottle from him.

"I dare you t'kiss me."

"S'easy." She leaned in and went further than kissing.

Sam's jaw was tight and he looked away. Only Dean would have been able to notice the slight change in Sam's mood, yeah, the kid was still pissed off, but there was something personal about it now.

John returned, nodded at his boys and walked back towards the car. The three left silently, and the two making out didn't notice a thing.

Dean grabbed Sam's arm just before the car. "What's going on?"

Sam looked back towards the direction of the cemetery. "Looks like there wouldn't have been a study session anyway, so I missed nothing."

He pulled his arm from Dean's grasp and retreated to the car. Dean glanced back at his brother before he climbed in. So Lisa was the name of the girl Sam had a crush on, he sure did know how to pick them.

Sam was silent on the ride home, his eyes on the darkness outside the window. His arms were folded across his chest, his jaw still tight. John glanced in the mirror at Sam, but didn't say anything. Seemed Sam was usually mad about something, though John had seen moments when he wasn't, moments when Sam thought his dad wasn't around. John sighed, never had a problem with Dean, well not one that couldn't be solved over a game of pool. He couldn't read Sam any more, wondered if he ever really could.

They pulled up in front of the rented apartment and headed inside.

"Sam." John stopped his son at the by the door.

Surprisingly Sam stopped.

"This act is getting a little old, son." John worked to keep his tone neutral.

Sam tensed anyway. "I still do what you say, so I can't see how it matters to you."

John wasn't ready for that. "Just want to see you happy."

He scoffed. "See you tomorrow." Sam disappeared inside.

That wasn't exactly how John saw the conversation going, though he didn't really have a conversation in mind. Sam and Dean's bedroom door was closed when John passed by.

Sam dropped onto his bed with one arm folded behind his head. His eyes were focused on the joining of the wall and the ceiling.

Dean looked over, considered the consequences. "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault." Sam's voice was too even. "You weren't playing truth or dare in the cemetery." He reached over and turned off the light.


	2. Alone

Still don't own Supernatural. Not suing would be appreciated. I have no money, I promise, so please just let me use the brilliant characters.

There's very little fluff in the beginning of this one, lots of angst though, so that's always good.

Thanks for reading and reviewing.

Sam is 17, and Dean is 21

-/\-SN-/\-

Sam knew that when his alarm went off for school, and the icy sheets of ran blew against the windows, and the note that said Dean and John were out, and they were out of milk; he knew it was going to be a shitty day. That's when he remembered the history quiz he forgot to study for.

Once he got to school and removed his soaked jacket, he hoped things would be better. He slid down his locker for a few minutes of cramming before first period history, maybe he'd be able to b.s. his way through it , not like he hadn't done it a hundred times before. He looked up in time to see Derek walk down the hall, his arm around Lisa's waist. Sam told himself that friends were overrated anyway.

Somehow he made it through history, through his classes and to lunch. Everyone was talking about how exciting it was that Lisa and Derek finally hooked up. She caught Sam's eyes, maybe it was pity that flashed through hers for a second before she turned away. He didn't care, it's not like he could change anything anyway.

The rain continued and created a cold, miserable, wet day. He pulled up his hood on the walk home in an attempt to keep the icy rain from numbing his face further. Sam was mildly comforted that at least the weather matched his mood. He arrived home more damp and cold than he would have liked. He retreated to his room and traded his damp shirt for a dry one.

With a sigh he settled on his bed and pulled out his math homework. He wanted to finish before his dad and brother arrived home and decided that he needed to help them with another pointless aspect of the hunt. Sam understood why they did what they did, he just didn't understand why he always had to come along.

The front door closed and Sam waited for the inevitable call of his name.

"Sam." John's voice carried through the house.

He closed his book and pushed himself off the bed.

John looked up as his son came in. "We're leaving early tomorrow, there's a good lead on this thing. I've called school, told them you'd be out."

"I have a math test, and an English paper due tomorrow."

"You'll have to make it up."

"No." He tried to keep the anger out of his voice as long as he could.

John met his son's eyes. "What was that?"

Sam smirked. "I said no."

"And I don't recall asking."

"Do you want me to blindly follow you or do you want me to be happy. Cause I can't do both." The words were sharp, hard. "Personally, I think you want me to mindlessly follow you, another soldier fresh from the mold. I'm right, aren't I?"

The room was silent, tension tight across John's shoulders.

Sam scoffed, shook his head. "That's what I thought." He grabbed his sweatshirt and headed for the door.

John grabbed Sam's arm. "Sam."

He pulled himself from his dad's grip and slammed the door on his way out. The sharp sound hung in the air for a moment. John took a slow breath and picked up his journal. Dean was torn between going after his brother in an attempt to slow the burning bridges, but he also knew that Sam would probably want to handle the fire on his own.

At least the rain had stopped.

After an hour it was dark, and Sam still hadn't returned. A cold wind had settled in and whipped the damp air between houses and trees. Dean had taken to pacing the living room, eyes on the windows and doors for the lanky frame of his brother.

John looked up at his son. "Try his phone."

Dean stopped and pulled out his phone. He hit Sam's number and waited patiently, until he was sent to voicemail. Sam always answered, even if he was pissed off, he knew better than to just let it ring.

John stood and grabbed his coat. "Let's go find him."

They left the apartment. John took the car he borrowed from Bobby and went one direction and Dean took the Impala and went in the opposite direction. Dean drove down blocks, turning when it felt right. His phone rang and he fished it from his pocket.

"…Dean?" Sam's voice slurred a little. He stumbled along the gravel shoulder of a road. Blood ran down the side of his face.

Dean sighed. "Where the hell are you?"

"Don't know." He sounded tired, or hurt.

"Are you okay?"

He coughed and spit. "Don't know."

"Tell me what you see, I'll come and get you."

Sam took a slow breath. "I'm on a road." The words were slow.

"Good." Dean rolled his eyes. "Any buildings, something more specific? There are a lot of roads, Sammy."

Sam paused. "Warehouse, but I don't think there's anyone there."

Dean was pretty sure he knew what Sam was talking about.

"There's a road sign, for a curve, I'm by that." He muttered.

"Are you hurt?" Dean knew his brother was, he just didn't know how bad.

"My head hurts." He sounded almost surprised.

Dean turned down a street without signaling. "Sam, I have to let dad know. Don't sleep, I'll call back in two minutes. Okay?"

"Yeah." Sam slumped to the ground, leaned against the road sign.

Dean reluctantly ended the call and hit John's number.

"Find him?" Only someone knowing John would have been able to hear the worry.

"I think he's off of highway 17, I'm getting him now. Meet you back home." Dean ended the call and called back Sam.

Sam had been forcing his eyes to stay open when his phone rang again. His hand shook as he flipped open the phone. "Hey, Dean."

"Give me five minutes, Sam." Dean was not reassured by the slur in his brother's words. "Tell me what happened."

Sam leaned heavily on the sign, tried to remember what happened. He shivered, the wind cut through his sweatshirt. His thoughts were hard to focus on, to organize.

"Sam?"

He swallowed back nausea. "Not really sure. Walking, then woke up on the ground."

"Are you bleeding?" Dean slowed so to look for his brother in the dark.

Sam reached up and touched his head, his fingers came away dark with blood. "Yeah."

"From your head?"

"Yeah." He closed his eyes to oncoming lights.

"I see you, don't move." Dean eased the car off the road a few feet before his brother.

He climbed from the car and ran to Sam's side. Sam didn't say anything, closed his eyes for a second.

Dean grabbed Sam's shoulder. "Let's get you home."

Sam let Dean do most of the work of getting him to his feet. Everything spun lazily around him and he staggered to catch his balance. Dean guided his brother to the car and eased him into the front seat.

"Don't sleep." Dean said as he climbed behind the wheel.

Sam sighed, leaned his head back against the seat. Dean glanced over at him and pulled back onto the road. He flipped open his phone and hit his dad's number.

"Dean?" John hoped desperately that it was good news.

"He's in the car, bringing him home."

"Sammy okay?"

Dean glanced over again. "For the most part. He's got a nasty bump to the head."

"See you in a few minutes."

Dean slipped the phone in his pocket.

Sam shifted in the seat, his fingers on the door handle. "Dean."

He glanced over at his younger brother. Without a word Dean pulled onto the shoulder. Sam pushed open the door and mostly fell out of the car. He was on his hands and knees, breathing hard when Dean ran around the car. Sam retched again.

Dean gripped his brother's shoulder. "Sammy."

"Sorry." He whispered, spat.

"Just so long as it's not in the Impala."

Sam managed a weak laugh and tentatively eased back. His hands shook and he was pale.

"You ready to head home?"

He nodded and let Dean help him back into the car. Dean let Sam close his eyes for the rest of the ride. He knew all too well the difficult balance of keeping your eyes open and keeping from vomiting from a concussion. John's borrowed car was in the driveway as Dean pulled in.

He climbed out and then went around to help Sam. Dean hooked his arm under Sam's shoulders and helped him towards the door.

"How angry s'dad?" He swallowed.

"He's just worried." Dean hoped that John would be able to figure out the worried/angry before they walked in the door.

Sam nodded because he was too injured to doubt his brother. Dean pushed open the door and guided his brother to the couch.

John rose from the kitchen table. "Sam, where have you-"

Dean shot him a look that ended the sentence.


	3. Unknown

Still don't own Supernatural. Not suing would be appreciated. I have no money, I promise, so please just let me use the brilliant characters.

Full of injured Sam; what else do you want? Ah, the plot thickens.

Thanks for reading and reviewing.

Sam is 17, and Dean is 21

-/\-SN-/\-

John took a breath, redirected. "What happened?"

Sam blinked slowly, tried to focus. "Don't know." Fear slowly crept into his eyes. "Wasn't even walking that way."

"Doesn't matter right now." Dean rested his hand on Sam's shoulder. "Where else are you hurt?"

"M'head hurts." Sam closed his eyes and leaned back against the couch.

Dean stood to get the first aid kit. John pulled a kitchen chair over and sat in front of his son.

John leaned forward, gripped his son's knee. "Sam, are you hurt anywhere else?"

He looked at his dad, tried to figure out what was going on or what happened. "You're not mad at me?"

"No. Just didn't know where you were."

"That makes two of us." He swallowed.

That wasn't an answer that reassured John or Dean. The part of the road that Dean had found his brother on was less than a mile from the cemetery where the first death was found. There were too many coincidences, and the Winchesters didn't believe in coincidence very much, they couldn't risk it.

The coroner's reports John had found of the victims all stated the cause of death as accidental, it all made sense with what appeared to happen. The girl found in the cemetery was found near the fence, broken neck; the two boys found at bottom of the water tower, death from fall; boy in the woods, suicide (gunshot), girl in the car wrapped around the tree, blunt force trauma, girl found at the lake, drowning; and the last boy from the river. There was no connection other than accidents too close together in timing and area, back to coincidences that John didn't believe in.

Dean sat down and flipped open the first aid kit. "Let me get a look at your head, Sammy. Make sure you didn't further damage your brain, cause you should be careful with the little you got."

"'M smarter than you." He smiled painfully.

"Just keep telling yourself that."

Sam winced as the peroxide hit the wound and then again as the gauze was pressed down. He was quiet as Dean carefully cleaned the blood away and fastened two butterfly bandages over the gash on his brother's forehead. Even with a concussion, Sam knew the calculating gaze in John's eyes, knew he was connecting the dots he had.

Sam slowly sat forward and prepared to stand. "Gonna go clean up." He swallowed as dizziness threatened to pull him to the floor.

He ignored Dean's hand and staggered a little until his equilibrium caught up with his movements. Dean waited five minutes before he went after his brother. He found Sam in the bathroom, arms braced on the edge of the counter. His face was pale and his eyes were closed.

"Sam, you okay?"

He looked over at his brother and nodded slightly. He stilled the movement as it increased the pounding in his head. Dean noticed his brother pale further. Sam wavered slightly. Dean eased his younger brother back so he was sitting on the edge of the bathtub.

"Really knocked you around, huh?" Dean muttered, eyes on Sam.

He whispered. "I guess."

"Don't remember what happened?"

Sam let his head drop forward out of exhaustion. "No."

"You should get to bed."

"M'covered in blood." He looked up, helpless for a minute.

Dean sighed and smiled a little. "Most of it will come off with the shirt."

Sam nodded, forgot he shouldn't and listed forward. Dean braced one hand on his brother's chest and the other gripped on his shoulder. Sam sucked in breath at the unexpected pain. Dean's contact instantly became gentler and concerned.

While Sam had his eyes closed, Dean carefully pulled his brother's shirt from him. Sam was too focused on staying sitting and not vomiting to offer any help or hindrance to the action.

"Shit, Sammy." Dean breathed as he dropped the shirt to the floor.

Sam opened his eyes and caught his reflection in the mirror. Aside from the few remaining smears of blood and his own paleness, two large bruises colored his chest.

"Dean?" Sam looked to his brother for answers, he always had answers.

"You must have fallen, or something." He had to say something.

Dean ran his hands over Sam's ribs and didn't think any of them were broken, bruised obviously, but not broken. Sam's hands were gripped on the edge of the tub and his eyes were closed again.

"Dean." Sam swallowed.

"Yeah, Sammy."

It didn't seem possible, but he paled further. "Don't feel s'great."

Dean's step to the side was purely reflex as Sam dove for the toilet. Having missed dinner combined with the earlier event at the side of the road, there wasn't much left to come up as he heaved. The effort made his head throb and his vision swim. After too many minutes that were too long, he collapsed against the wall. A thin sheen of sweat stuck his hair to his forehead and his breathing was shallow, controlled in an effort to breathe through the pain.

He knelt in front of Sam. "Sleep in your bed or sleep here?"

"Staying here is closer."

Dean smiled. "Yeah, I pick icy tile over bed any day." He handed Sam a damp washcloth. "Here, get the rest of the blood off."

Sam's hand shook as he wiped the blood away. The water on his skin made him shiver and he thought fondly of sleep. He hardly noticed as he was gently pulled to his feet and guided to his bed. He wanted to lay back and let himself be pulled to sleep, but Dean's hand on his shoulder prevented him from it.

"Sam."

He opened his eyes and saw the pills in his brother's hand. He took them and then the glass Dean offered.

"Drink it slow, Sammy." His hand never left his little brother's shoulder.

Dean took the glass back and set it on the table. "You want to sleep in your jeans, or something else?"

Sam shrugged, too tired to make even that decision. Dean rolled his eyes and guided him back against the pillow. The room spun around Sam as he was moved from vertical to horizontal, but once he was there it felt better. Once Dean was sure that Sam was situated he turned and saw John in the doorway.

"Those bruises from tonight?" He kept his voice low.

Dean leaned against the doorframe, his eyes on his brother. "Yeah. Don't know from what, but I'd bet it's related to the gash on his head."

John wasn't sure how much of that statement was smart-ass remark, but he let it go. "Think he'll be fit for tomorrow?"

"We'll have to see tomorrow." The words were hard. "He's not going if he's not fit."

"And last time I checked, I was his father."

Dean bit back a comment that he was sure would piss his dad off and merely shrugged. "We'll see." He had to know. "You were about ready to rip into him, when I dragged him inside, weren't you?"

John looked at Sam. "Most likely."

"You knew he was hurt, I told you that. Hell, the kid came in covered in blood."

"I know, Dean. I don't have an excuse." John sighed. "I guess I was going to pick up where we left off when he stormed out."

Dean glanced back at him. "Why?"

John shook his head, he honestly didn't know, and that intensified the guilt that he had been trying to ignore. It seemed that if he and Sam weren't yelling, they weren't talking at all.

"Give him a break." Dean's tone had softened.

"Get some sleep." John squeezed Dean's shoulder before he retreated to his room.

Dean pulled off his shirt and shoes. He went over to Sam and made sure that he was all right. Sam had the blanket pulled up around his face, but he slept without knowledge of pain. Dean stretched out on his bed and waited for sleep.


	4. Set Up

Still don't own Supernatural. Not suing would be appreciated. I have no money, I promise, so please just let me use the brilliant characters.

Angsty, injured, lying Sam. Hmmmmm.

Thanks for reading and reviewing.

Sam is 17, and Dean is 21

-/\-SN-/\-

Dean woke shortly after dawn by his cell phone. He quickly silenced it before it could wake Sam and looked over at his brother. Sam was still pale and Dean figured it wasn't just because the room wasn't well lit. Dean pushed himself out of bed and went to grab a shower.

When Dean returned, Sam's eyes were open, but he hadn't moved other than that. "How do you feel?"

He shrugged. "All right, I guess. When are we leaving?"

"That depends on you."

He slowly sat up, his muscles sore from whatever had happened the night before. "I'm not sure I believe that."

"How are you feeling now?"

He almost admitted to being dizzy. "Fine." He carefully ran his fingers over the bump on his head. "I'll give you updates every thirty seconds."

Dean sighed. When Sam's preferred method of answering involved sarcasm, he was probably back to normal. Dean pulled on a sweatshirt.

"Still fine." Sam smirked when Dean glanced over at him.

John leaned in the doorway. Sam unconsciously tensed.

"Sam." He paused, leaned on the doorway. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

John glanced over at Dean. "Last night."

Sam looked intently at the floor. He wasn't sure what was going on, maybe he hit his head harder than he thought. "Okay."

"Good." John nodded, situation over. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine." Sam looked up.

It didn't take a genius to see that Sam wasn't. He was still pale and his hands shook slightly.

"You sure?"

"Yeah." He glanced over at Dean.

"Out in the car in forty minutes, then." He left the doorframe.

Sam eased into standing and waited for the room to stop shifting around him. He left the room, determined not to catch Dean's eye. Dean relaxed some when he heard the shower start. He went back to packing what he would need.

In the shower, Sam leaned against the tiled wall as the water poured over him. He was dizzier than he let on and some part of his logic told him that he really should spend the day laying low, but there was this desire, an urge that he couldn't explain. He had to do something, had to go on the hunt, had to push past his weakness; and that was stronger than his logic.

He wiped the steam from the mirror. His pale, bruised reflection looked back at him. The two bruises on his chest were a little wider than his hand, fingers spread as wide as they go. He had a faint black eye as a result from the gash and bruise on his forehead. He brushed his teeth and ignored the fact that he looked like he had been the victim of a hit and run.

Sam appeared in the room and quickly pulled on jeans and a shirt. He tugged a sweatshirt on and left the hood up. He was a little cold, a side affect of having a head injury. He knew that Dean kept sneaking glances at him, but he ignored it as much as his brother denied it. Dean grabbed his bag and left the room. Sam sunk onto the edge of his bed and took a slow breath.

By the time Sam emerged in the kitchen, Dean had finished breakfast. He placed a banana next to a piece of toast and a glass of water, the meal was completed by a couple pain pills.

"I'm not hungry." Sam stated as he grabbed the pills.

"Well, I'm not asking."

Sam shot his brother a cold look and slowly ate. Dean rolled his eyes, it looked like angsty, pissy Sam was back with a vengeance. At least there were a few moments of truce in the morning, more than the last week combined. Maybe Sam should end up with a head injury more often, Dean smirked at the thought.

"Ready?" Dean asked as Sam finished the water.

"Yeah." He bent down to grab his bag.

Dean didn't miss how Sam grabbed the table to stay on his feet, didn't miss the flash of pain in his eyes. Sam straightened and swung the bag over his shoulder. He was out the door before his brother could say anything else.

John was waiting down by the car when his boys came from the house. He watched Sam, not entirely convinced that his son was up for a hunt. As if Sam could read his thoughts, he looked up into John's eyes. Stubborn determination mixed and covered with the pain. John didn't know what he could say that wouldn't end up in another argument, so he simply climbed behind the wheel.

Sam slid into the back and leaned back against the seat. Breakfast had made him feel less shaky and when the pills kicked in, it would take care of his headache. The dizziness he would just have to push through, it's not like he hadn't done it before.

John pulled onto the road and headed towards the cemetery again. He had found the first death in the pattern, almost missed it because it was three months before any of the others. A boy had been found in the cemetery, broken arm and bruises, cause of death was internal bleeding. As far as the police could figure, he had been intoxicated, snuck into the cemetery on a dare, tripped and injured himself and he died hours later. Either this kid was the start of it, or the cause of it. John was fairly certain the boy was the cause.

He stopped the car at the police roadblock and rolled down the window. An officer approached the car.

"I'm sorry, sir, but no vehicles are allowed past this point?" The officer was young, John could use that.

"Gee, what happened?"

He glanced over at the police tape and cars. "It seems that a couple of kids were at a party that got a little out of hand."

"Are they all right?"

Dean caught Sam's eyes, at least they didn't have to wonder where their lying skills came from.

"No. It looks like alcohol poisoning."

"Where were they?" John sounded downright worried.

"Cemetery, a few miles up." The officer never even knew what he did.

"That's awful. Do you know who they were?"

He paused for a moment. "Derek Jones and Lisa Taylor."

Sam's eyes shot to the officer at those words. Dean watched only his brother.

"It's a shame." John rolled up the window as the officer walked away.

He turned the car around and headed for the road that would take them the back way. It took an extra fifteen minutes to get to the cemetery, but they had all day. John stopped the car about a quarter mile from the fence. The three climbed from the car and gathered around the open trunk.

"From what I found, it seems to be a spirit. I have a few guesses on whose spirit, but that's what we'll have to find today." John glanced over at Sam. "You sure you feel up to this?"

"Yes, sir." Sam glanced over at Dean.

"Spirit's killing those kids?" Dean asked as he checked his gun.

"By influence. So watch yourself. Both of you."

Sam and Dean nodded. John rested his hand on Sam's shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. It was probably the most successful conversation they've had in months. The three finished getting what they needed and started walking towards the cemetery.

The fence that ran around the back of the cemetery was about seven feet high. It was intended to keep people from climbing over, which is how the Winchesters were planning on getting in. Without a word having to be said, Sam and Dean took a running jump and scrambled up and over. Sam's landing wasn't as graceful as Dean's, but he was all right. Sam stumbled a little as he regained his balance, but covered well. John dropped down next to his sons.


	5. To Fall

Still don't own Supernatural. Not suing would be appreciated. I have no money, I promise, so please just let me use the brilliant characters.

Hurt Dean, and Sam, well, Sam just isn't himself. Drama!

Thanks for reading and reviewing.

Sam is 17, and Dean is 21

-/\-SN-/\-

It was a cool, damp, overcast day. The sun tried in vain to pierce the thick cover of clouds and that meant that night would come sooner.

The three split up to cover more ground. They each had a gravestone to look for and orders to call the others when they found it. Sam shoved his hands in his sweatshirt pocket. He was tired and his head faintly throbbed. The idea to simply sit down and take a break crossed his mind more frequently as he continued to put one foot in front of the other. The tall grass tangled around his feet and threatened to send him crashing to the ground.

Sam stumbled, tripped and found himself on his hands and knees. He eased back against a headstone and leaned his head back. Weariness made his arms and legs feel like lead. He closed his eyes and took a slow breath. The stone at his back seeped cold through his sweatshirt. He shivered and opened his eyes. He pushed himself to his feet and continued searching.

It was hard to tell how much time had passed in the gloom of the day, so Sam was surprised that it was past noon when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out and flipped it open to read the message from his dad. 'South-west corner.' He took a second to get his bearings.

Dean and John were waiting by a small crypt when Sam met up with them. He tripped over a hidden tombstone, but managed to catch his balance. He purposefully avoided Dean's eyes.

"You okay, Sam?" John glanced over, noticed how pale his son was.

"Yes, sir." Sam met his dad's eyes.

John looked from Sam to Dean. "It should be a simple salt and burn."

Dean caught the unsaid 'but' at the end of the sentence. "And?"

"And this thing is used to dealing with people, so I wouldn't expect it to go textbook or particularly simple. Just be ready."

Both Sam and Dean nodded.

John turned to the stone door of the crypt. The door was overgrown with weeds, even if it wasn't stone, it wouldn't have been especially easy to move. With slight hesitation, John and Dean slipped their guns into holsters. John, Sam and Dean leaned against the door and pushed. Slowly it moved a few inches and then wedged itself firmly in dirt. They tried again, but to no avail.

"Dean, you think you can fit through there." John joked.

"Sure. Sam you go first." He smiled.

Sam gave them both an eye roll, but played along and smiled.

John was about to suggest they clear the weeds from the door, when the temperature dropped rapidly. Instantly, the three were tense with hunter instinct. All three started to reach for weapons, but found themselves unable to move. Not good.

"I don't think you want to do that." The wavering form of a teenage boy solidified in front of the group.

He was about seventeen and lean in a tee shirt and ripped jeans. His eyes were cold, hard and confidant. Blood darkened one side of his face and faint bruises were seen on his bare arms.

He smiled. "All my life, other people told me what to do. At home, the back of a hand or belt let me know what I did 'wrong'. School, the jocks saw me as their personal punching bag. That night was going to show them all." He paused, met Sam's eyes and smiled. "Just like you will."

Suddenly, everything rushed back at Sam. Pain flared across his chest and he dropped to his knees as he gasped for breath. Dean wanted to run to his brother's side, but he was held fast.

"You remember the road, don't you, Sam?" He smiled again.

Sam remembered the walk, being angry. He remembered the cold that washed over him and recognizing what it was. He remembered trying to fight and then waking up at the side of the road, beaten and bloody.

While the spirit's attention was focused on Sam, John fought against the hold and slowly started to move towards his gun.

"I don't think so." The spirit turned suddenly.

John's gun flew away from him, landed in the grass by Sam.

"You don't learn, do you?" He no longer smiled. "I was dared to come here, I thought if I accepted, things would change. After another ass kicking I didn't deserve, I tried to run. I tripped, hit my head against a stone. They ran and left me to die. Now I get to return the favor."

John's fingers inched towards the flask of holy water at his hip.

"I said you don't learn. So I will teach you." It glanced at Dean.

Faster than a blink, Dean was thrown back. He collided hard with a monument and fell still to the ground.

The spirit focused again on John. "Understand?"

While its attention was away from Sam, he silently reached for the gun. The pain made his vision blur, but his fingers wrapped around the handle. He paused a second to aim and then fired the rock salt. The spirit vanished and John was released from its grip. Sam sunk to the ground and tried to breathe through the pain across his ribs and through his head.

"Sam, you okay?" John's voice came from somewhere above him.

"Dean." Sam gasped out.

He heard his dad's footsteps rustle away. When he looked up, John had his arm around Dean and guided him towards Sam.

Sam pushed himself up with an arm around his chest, his vision still blurred. "Dean?"

"I'm okay." He muttered.

From the way Dean held his arm, it was obvious that he wasn't. John quickly checked his oldest over and diagnosed a dislocated shoulder.

"Have to get it back in, Dean."

"I know." His eyes were on Sam though.

John glanced over at his youngest. "Ready?"

Dean painfully slipped out of his jacket. "Yeah."

John placed his hands on Dean's arm and shoulder. "On three. One, two. Three."

Sam saw Dean wince as his shoulder was moved back in. Dean closed his eyes for a moment to focus and then looked directly at Sam.

"Try not to move it for a while." John advised.

Dean managed a smile. "I know." He met Sam's eyes. "Are you okay?"

Sam nodded mutely. He didn't trust his voice not to break if he spoke. The pain was less, but still more than he wanted to deal with.

John sighed. "We need to get this thing while it's still gone."

Sam pulled himself to his feet. "Then we got to get the door open."

John passed Dean his gun. "If you have a clear shot, don't hesitate to shoot."

Dean nodded.

Sam and John went back to the door, synchronized their timing and pushed on the door. It opened a few more inches and John knew that was about all they'd get. He looked at his boys, tried to determine which was strong enough to get in there and finish it because there was no way he'd fit through the opening.

"I'll go." Sam stated.

Dean got to his feet. "No."

Something that Dean couldn't place lit Sam's eyes. "I'm fine. I've done salt and burns before."

"This thing is strong, Sam." John looked at his boy.

"I know. I can do it."

"No." Dean said again, he used the 'I'm in control of this' tone.

Sam glanced away from his brother. "You can't move your arm, Dean. And I bet your shoulder hurts like hell."

He tried to argue, but knew that Sam was right.

John rested his hand on Sam's shoulder. "Are you sure? We can come back."

"There isn't time." Sam replied like he knew something.

John handed Sam the gun, lighter fluid and Zippo. "I'll have your back. We both will."

Sam smiled. "I'll be fine."

Dean tried to figure out why this all felt wrong, why he needed to stop his little brother from doing this. Sam pocketed the lighter and lighter fluid. John managed to push the door open a fraction more.

Just as Sam was about to squeeze through, Dean stopped him. "Sammy, are you okay?" He wasn't asking about Sam's pain level or if the kid was dizzy.

Sam smiled again, confidant. "Perfect." That strange light in his eyes again.

Sam blew the air from his lungs, held out the breath and squeezed through. As soon as he was in, the door swung from John's hands like a screen door in a wind. It heavily slid closed. John tried to pull it open, to move it at all.

"Dad." Dean's voice was solemn, he suddenly knew what it was about Sam's eyes that troubled him. "It got him." The words hung heavy in the damp air.

As soon as Dean said it, John knew he was right, knew that Sam would try and go the path of all those other kids. Going in there, hurt like Sam was, was stupid and odds seemed to be, a suicide mission. John closed his eyes for a moment before he tried again to pull the door open.


	6. Under Influence

Still don't own Supernatural. Not suing would be appreciated. I have no money, I promise, so please just let me use the brilliant characters.

Sam's all alone, and hurt, and tired. Oh, you're going to hate me at the end of this chapter. I could be really mean, and make you wait, but I probably won't. If I have the next chapter written, I'll post it. (because I can't wait either and I want to read your reactions)

Thanks for reading and reviewing.

Sam is 17, and Dean is 21

-/\-SN-/\-

As soon as the door slammed behind him, Sam turned and tried to push it open. A million thoughts raced through his head, everything from how much this sucked to how much air was in the room.

"I wouldn't waste too much of your energy on the door."

He turned quickly and fell back against the door as dizziness washed over him. The spirit stood in front of him and smiled.

It took a step towards Sam. "You interest me."

Sam's eyes found the casket, lid cracked just enough to see the mostly decomposed body inside.

"Of all the people I've had the pleasure of meeting, you are the only one who can fight back."

He swallowed, his mouth dry. He hoped that his dad and brother were working on getting him out, knew they must be doing something. Pain shot through Sam's head and chest again, he fell to one knee on the cool cement floor.

"Why is that?"

"Don't know." Sam whispered.

"Then we'll learn together." It smiled. "Stand."

Sam stood, mostly from the command, but there was a small part of his thoughts that were still his. He could use that, wouldn't be a Winchester if he didn't take an opportunity when he stumbled across one. Still, he had this strong desire to do whatever amazing, dangerous things the spirit wanted him to do.

"What makes you special?"

Sam shrugged. "Never knew I was." He paused. "Listen, you think I could sit down or something. I don't feel the best."

The spirit looked at him, tried to figure out if the request was just that and nothing more. Sam tried his best to look innocent and controlled, he didn't have to worry too much about looking tired, hurt or sick.

It smiled. "You can sit next to me." It looked towards the coffin.

Sam hesitated, part of the act. "Okay." He had been at this too long to let bodies and bones make him nervous.

He still felt the influence, like someone's hand on his arm, or when he was younger and Dean would grab Sam's arm, hit Sam with his own hand and say, "Stop hitting yourself." The smile that appeared with the sudden memory was gone almost as fast as it was there. He wondered if he'd ever see Dean again, ever get out of the crypt alive. Sam's knees bent and he half sat, half leaned against the edge of the casket.

"Now what?" Sam's voice unintentionally wavered.

"I have some fun."

Pain tightened around Sam's chest, breathing was much harder than it should have been. Somehow he managed to get the salt from his pocket. He tucked it up his sleeve. He rested that arm on the edge and opened the salt. Some fell into his sleeve, but he hoped more was falling into the casket.

"No!" The spirit hissed.

Sam was thrown forward onto the floor. His chin hit and stars blossomed in front of his eyes. The thick, salty-metallic taste of blood slowly filled his mouth. The spirit gripped Sam's wrist, the grip as tight as any he had felt by someone alive. The container of salt was thrown across the room and sharp pain surrounded his wrist. Sam wondered if it was now broken, or if his hand was even still there. He was dazed from the impact to the floor and his chest burned with the new pain of impact.

The spirit knelt by Sam's head, gripped his hair. "You think you're clever, but I will still win." It smiled. "I could have you play with the lighter in your pocket, see how fast that lighter fluid really burns. Or I could kill you how I was killed. That would take much longer, of course, but it's not like I have anywhere to go." It stood and turned away. "Get up."

Sam found himself pushing up from the ground. His head spun and black faded in and out of his vision. He weakly spat blood and carefully ran his tongue over to make sure that he still had all his teeth.

The spirit turned, a twisted smile. "What now?"

Sam leaned heavily against the wall, his head throbbed and his stomach clenched. He tentatively touched his split lip and spit more blood.

"Let me show you something."

Icy fingers gripped tight around Sam's wrist and pulled him back to the casket. Its hand rested just above Sam's neck and forced his head down.

"See how my ribs are broken. Punctured lung. How well are you breathing?"

"Been better." Sam whispered.

Fear and pain was starting to cloud his thinking. He had to fight to stay lucid if he was going to get out of this alive. Though, what's the fun of getting out alive.

"…skull fracture, you can't see it from here." It continued. "Bled into my brain. It was slow process, and it hurt like hell, took hours."

Sam didn't realize his hand was on the lighter fluid in his pocket until it was there. "Why me? I didn't do this to you, wasn't even living here."

"Like you would have been different. We're all the same in high school, all want the same pathetic things."

Sam brought his hand up to the edge of the casket, lighter fluid concealed underneath. He watched the stream of liquid slowly run and soak the rotting silk lining. The fumes turned his already unsettled stomach and made him dizzier.

"Okay. I'm bored." It suddenly stated.

Without further warning, Sam was driven to his knees. The spirit's icy hand was at his throat, fingers tight.

"…too quick." Sam managed to gasp out.

The spirit paused, amused. "Your right. A few minutes and you'd be gone. I can wait for you to breath all the air in the room, watch you suffocate then, if you're still alive." The grip around Sam's throat loosened. "Breathe deep."

He involuntarily took a long, slow breath. It strained his ribs and set waves of pain through his body. He ended up on his knees, forehead rested against the cold floor as the pain blocked out everything else.

"Get up." The voice was cold.

Sam slowly pushed himself to his feet, wavered and fell against the casket behind him.

"Turn around."

He turned to face the body of the boy who didn't deserve to die, like all the others didn't deserve to die. Sam's mouth was full of blood again, and that woke the part of him he still had control of. He bowed his head forward and opened his mouth a little. The blood flowed, then dripped onto the bones. The salty-metallic blood.

"Let's play with fire, Sam."

Even though he fought against it with every ounce of his stubborn determination, he pulled the Zippo from his pocket. He flicked it open and watched the yellow-blue flame stand perfectly still in the room. He didn't have control any more, not even a little bit.

"You put your left hand in…." It sang softly.

He really wouldn't see Dean again, wouldn't see his dad. No. He was a Winchester, they fight past the end, always have, always will. His left hand rose slowly, palm open and facing down towards the fire. He could feel it, warm on his skin when everything else was icy cold.

"How close does skin have to be to fire before it burns?" The spirit was right behind him, its seductive words right in his ear.

Sam focused everything, absolutely everything he had on simply opening the fingers on his right hand. Open, open, oh god, please open. He could feel the heat on his palm getting warmer. He could watch his hand slowly lower over the flame. Open. I'm sorry, Dean. Open. I'm sorry, dad. Open.

Open.

The lighter fell from his shaking fingers. For a second everything stopped, then there was the almost silent _woosh_ as the soaked fabric caught. Sam heard a scream from behind him and knew nothing else.


	7. Broken

Still don't own Supernatural. Not suing would be appreciated. I have no money, I promise, so please just let me use the brilliant characters.

Very injured Sam (most of you probably don't mind) and worried/caring Dean and John. There will be at least one more chapter after this. I almost didn't continue tonight past the first few paragraphs, but that was because I wasn't left on a cliff….so for you all, I finished the chapter.

Thanks for reading and reviewing.

Sam is 17, and Dean is 21

-/\-SN-/\-

John had worked for a sold hour on simply opening the door. Dean had lent his good shoulder to the process, but some of his strength was leeched away by pain. Darkness had started to settle around them, the air damper and cooler.

"Come on, Sam." John muttered, his throat tight with worry and fear. "Come on, Sammy. Don't you give up, don't you give in."

They wouldn't have given up, not ever, but they were tiring. John and Dean's eyes met, they silently counted to three and tried again. The door shifted, moved an inch. That small movement was hope and they doubled their efforts. John instantly noticed the smell of burning lighter fluid in the air and saw the flickering light of fire.

They managed to get the door open enough that John could squeeze through. The stone scraped painfully against his shoulder blades and ribs, but he didn't care. Sam was sprawled on the floor, pale, still. There wasn't time to check for a pulse, the fire was growing now that there was fresh air pouring into the crypt. John grabbed his son around the chest and eased him through the narrow opening to Dean's awaiting arms.

John glanced back to make sure that the casket and bones were well on their way to ash, which they were. He squeezed through again, got stuck for a second and then pushed through. He leaned on the door, felt it slide back, closed, and saw Sam.

His boy was still in Dean's arms.

"Sammy." Dean pressed his fingers against Sam's neck to feel for a pulse. "Sammy, breathe, Sammy."

John eased Sam from Dean's grip and laid his youngest on the cold, damp ground. He tipped his son's head back to open the air passages and rested his hand on Sam's chest. Through the layers of shirts, he felt Sam's shallow breaths, his rapid heartbeat. Sam coughed, blood frothed at his lips. John carefully turned his boy on his side. The blood dripped from Sam's mouth as he coughed again.

"Easy, Sammy." John murmured. "You're all right, now."

John and Dean watched Sam breath for a few moments, just watched him.

"Dean." John's voice was soft, but the words were harder, important. "Can you drive?"

"Yes, sir."

"You're sure?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

John glanced up at him. "We're near enough to the south gate, bring the car in there."

Dean stood, paused. "It will take like, fifteen minutes."

"Ten, if you speed." John's eyes were a mix of worry, fear and determination. "Don't crash, don't do anything dumb. Just get here in one piece. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir." He caught the keys that were tossed to him. "Dad?"

"He'll be all right."

Dean nodded, took one last look at Sam and jogged towards the car with his injured arm held close to his chest. John slipped out of his jacket and tucked it around Sam.

He gently brushed his boy's hair back. "You did great, Sammy. Scared the hell out of me and your brother, don't you ever do that again, but I'm so proud of you." Sam's skin was cool under his fingers.

John carefully moved Sam to his lap to keep him warmer. Sam had yet to wake, to move, to show any signs of consciousness. His heartbeat was still too fast and his breathing too shallow, he was in shock, John knew the signs as well as anyone. John kept one ear out for the Impala's engine, even though it hadn't been near enough time.

"You're getting blood on my best coat, Sam." He spoke just to fill time, to keep worry from killing him. "When you wake up, you and me are going to have a long talk about what happened in there. About what happened today."

John kept talking, his voice low and rough, anything that came to mind. He talked about past hunts, about things he remembered from when Sam and Dean were little. He told Sam how much he was reminded of Mary every time he looked at his son. Told him how proud she would have been.

"…dad…" The word was so quiet that John nearly missed it.

Only because John was waiting for something, anything, did he catch it. "Right here, Sammy."

"…cold." He breathed, his brow was furrowed in pain, eyes still closed.

John wrapped the jacket tighter around Sam. "How bad are you hurting?"

"Mmmm." He tried to shift, but didn't have the strength to move.

"Dean's going to be here soon with the car. We'll get you home, get you warm and patched up. How's that sound?"

Sam's eyes opened for a second, blurred with pain, before they closed again. "'kay."

Finally, John heard the rumble of the engine and sighed. The light from the headlights bounced off the polished surfaces of the headstones. The engine idled and Dean jogged back.

"Okay, Sammy." John looked up at Dean. "We're going to move you, we'll try not to make you hurt any worse. You let us know."

He didn't expect a response and wasn't let down when there wasn't one. Dean knelt down and Sam was gently rested against his chest. John stood and pulled Sam up into his arms. Sam's breath caught slightly as John readjusted his grip.

"Got him?" There were so many meanings behind those two words that Dean wasn't even sure what he meant.

"Yeah." John followed Dean through the obstacle course of headstones. "If he gets any taller, though…"

John eased Sam into the backseat as best as the kids long legs would allow and tucked the jacket around him. Despite the fact that the heat was on, Sam still shivered.

Dean climbed into the passenger seat, half turned around so that he could keep an eye on his brother. John got behind the wheel and pulled back onto the road. It was unspoken that Dean was to keep an eye on Sam, to make sure that he didn't get worse.

"Did he wake up at all?" Dean kept his eyes on Sam.

John glanced in the mirror at the backseat. "A word or two."

The rest of the ride was silent. John debated between home and hospital. At the intersection where it mattered, he turned towards home. They'd see how Sam was before any further decisions. John pulled up in front of the apartment and turned off the car. For a few moments, nobody moved, just listened to each other breathe in the silence.

John opened his door and went around to the back. "Dean." He tossed the keys over to his son.

Dean went to the door and unlocked it. He turned on the porch light and the living room lights. John gently eased Sam from the car. Sam whimpered a little at the movement, but didn't wake further than that. John picked up his boy, both hoped and regretted that it might be the last time, and walked to the house.

John passed the couch and the door to Sam and Dean's room. He went to his own room and placed his son on the bed. John glanced back at Dean, all that was needed as he ducked out to get the first aid kit.

Sam shivered as John removed the jacket and pulled a blanket up over his son. As John slowly removed Sam's sweatshirt he was reminded of a younger Sam, simply asleep before getting to bed. Once Sam's tee shirt was off, the bruises from the previous night were dark and the new ones were quickly darkening. Watching Sam's face, John ran his fingers over his son's ribs. Sam confirmed John's suspicion of three broken.

John pulled the blanket up and brushed Sam's hair back. "I'm sorry, Sam."

Dean came in the room, first aid kit under his good arm and a damp towel, mug and thermos in his hand. John took the towel and wiped the dried and drying blood from Sam's face and chest. He shivered more as the water cooled on his skin.

Dean took a bottle of pain pills and dumped one into the bottom of a mug. He ground up the pill with the handle of his knife. He picked up the thermos and poured warm tea over the powder. He placed the mug on the nightstand and turned his attention to his brother.


	8. Pieces

Still don't own Supernatural. Not suing would be appreciated. I have no money, I promise, so please just let me use the brilliant characters.

Injured Sam (most of you probably don't mind) and worried/caring Dean and John. Okay, so I guess there will be one more chapter. Don't worry, I plan on angsty Sam to return as he and John engage in the threatened and promised talk about the events.

Thanks for reading and reviewing.

Sam is 17, and Dean is 21

-/\-SN-/\-

Sam's eyes flickered open and pain confused him. The last thing he remembered was the small spark of fire starting. As that memory flooded, panic came along with it. He tried to sit up, to escape, but the pain across his chest held him down.

"Easy, Sam." John's voice was low, his hand on his son's shoulder as a gentle restraint. "Just relax, take it slow."

All he could taste was blood and it churned his stomach. "Dad?"

"Right here."

A hand was at the back of his head and he flinched away, certain that it was the spirit. He winced at the pain in his head and chest, breath short and tight.

"Shhh, Sammy." Dean's voice cut through the terror. "You're okay."

"Dean." His voice broke, but he didn't care.

"Just drink this."

Sam found the smooth edge of a mug against his split and swollen lip. Warm and bitter liquid was tipped into his mouth. He closed his eyes and swallowed involuntarily, anything to cover the taste of blood. It stung his lip, a sharper and less important pain that helped take the focus of the incapacitating pulse across his ribs, around his wrist and through his head. Dean kept easing the tea into his little brother's mouth like he had countless times before with water or juice or whatever he was trying to get a semi-conscious Sam to drink.

He coughed slightly on the liquid and Dean pulled the mug back, hand still cupped behind Sam's head. "Home?"

"Yeah." Dean smiled a little. "For as smart as you claim to be, those one word sentences sure hide it well."

Sam smiled and sighed, though it could have been a weak laugh. "Jerk."

Dean carefully tipped the last of the tea into Sam's mouth and placed the empty mug on the table. He settled on the bed next to Sam's knees.

John pulled an instant ice pack from the kit, broke it, and passed it to Dean. "Put it on your shoulder." He also handed his oldest a few Advil which he dry swallowed.

He obeyed and rested it on his shoulder. The cold eased the tension and relaxed some of the pain away, or at least numbed it a little. John taped it onto Dean's shirt.

"Sam." John rested his hand on Sam's arm. "Where are you hurt?"

He knew, but it seemed to take a long time and a lot of work to get the words to his lips. "Chest."

"Yeah, you have a few broken ribs I want to tape up." John couldn't help but keep his tone calm, worried. "Where else?"

"…headstillhurts." The words blended together in an exhaled breath.

"From last night?"

Sam shook his head slightly, fear slowly reaching his eyes as he figured out that he was a hell of a lot more hurt than he first realized. His eyes sparkled suddenly with unshed tears.

Dean gripped his brother's leg. "You're gonna be okay, Sammy. Just breathe."

He took a shuddering breath, his hands fisted at his sides. Suddenly it all seemed like too much as bits and pieces came back to him, stacked on top of the ever-present pain.

John gently placed his hand in the center of Sam's chest, a centering gravity. With his other hand he pulled out a small flashlight.

"Just look right at me, Sam." John watched Sam's pupils for reaction as he moved the flashlight.

"S'okay?" He glanced over at Dean.

"You're okay." He paused. "Sam. I'm going to sit you up so I can tape your ribs."

He swallowed and nodded, his eyes on Dean. Slowly, John slid his hand behind Sam's back and helped him sit up. He held his breath, closed his eyes against the pain. Dean moved forward and braced his hands on his brother's shoulders.

"You okay?" He muttered, close to his brother's ear.

Sam nodded slightly, eyes still closed.

"Breathe." Dean whispered.

He slowly took a breath. John expertly wrapped tape around his son's chest. Sam relaxed some as his broken ribs were supported. John eased his boy back into the pillows.Weariness poured over him and he relaxed as the pain pill took effect.

"M'wrist hurts." He muttered, eyes slipping closed.

John slid Sam's bruised left wrist into his hand, pressed along the bones. Sam winced, but not like he had when John found the broken ribs. Sam's breathing evened out as he drifted in medicated sleep.

"His arm okay?" Dean kept his voice low.

"Just a sprain." John sighed. "When I first saw him on the ground like that, I thought…" He let the word fade, didn't want to voice what he really thought.

"That's what I thought when you passed him to me." Dean confessed. "It was too close."

"I know." He glanced back at his oldest. "Get some sleep. I'll stay with him tonight."

Dean hesitated, debated between his brother's bedside and his own bed. John wrapped Sam's wrist in an ace bandage and placed an ice pack around it. He glanced back at Dean.

John knew the options running through Dean's head. "Get a few hours and then take watch for me."

He nodded, looked once more at his sleeping, injured brother and left the room. John leaned back in the chair, arms folded across his chest. He had forgotten how reassuring it was just to watch his boy sleeping, to know that whatever had happened, he was all right.

"Dad?" Sam whispered with his eyes still closed.

John sat forward, gripped Sam's arm. "What do you need?"

"M'sorry." His eyes opened, blurred now with medication and fatigue.

"For what?"

Sam shook his head, tried to find the words. He simply looked at his dad, that Winchester perfected way of having conversations without words and nothing really being said at all. He shifted, winced as he moved and sighed.

"How's the pain?" John changed topic to something with answers for both of them.

"Little better." He breathed. "M'thirsty."

John smiled a little and stood. He stepped out of the room, filled a glass with water and returned. He cupped the back of Sam's head and helped him take a few, slow drinks. Sam sunk into the pillow as John placed the water on the table.

"Get some sleep, Sammy."

For a second, Sam was determined not to out of habit, but then he realized that it was a good suggestion and let his eyes close. He floated in light sleep for a while, heard his dad shift in the chair, felt the calloused hand move, but not leave his arm. He didn't know when he sunk into deeper sleep.

John felt gritty with fatigue as the hours passed. Sam had woke after a handful of hours of sleep. He didn't say anything, but pain once again spilled from his eyes.

"Think you can swallow a pill?" John's voice was low, like he was trying not to wake someone.

Sam considered the question and nodded slightly. He sat up a little and felt the pain, hot and sharp, pull across his ribs. John braced a hand behind Sam's shoulder and tipped a pill into his son's shaking hand. The bitterness of the pill had just started when he was handed the half full glass of water, the liquid tremored as he took a slow drink. He coughed on the water as John took the glass back. Already sleep was pulling him again as he sunk back into the pillow. He blinked, slowly and then drifted back to sleep.

John turned at the footsteps behind him.

"Get some sleep." Dean kept his voice down.

He stood, stretched and slipped from the room. He paused and watched Dean pull the chair closer to Sam, his arm rested on the edge of the bed. Unconsciously, Sam's moved so that the edge of his pinky finger rested against Dean's arm. John smiled slightly before he stretched out on the couch.


	9. Reassembled

Still don't own Supernatural. Not suing would be appreciated. I have no money, I promise, so please just let me use the brilliant characters.

As promised, the return of angsty Sam (and still injured Sam). I think i figured out why it's so hard to write John. The perspective we have of him is mostly Sam's...and not that John was a tyrant (i don't think he was obviously), but he and Sam were just never on the same wavelength. That's what i tried to do, just make them both unable to understand the other. Thankfully Dean understands them both.

Thank you all for reading and commenting, it really helped the story along and made me smile, so yeah.

Sam is 17, and Dean is 21

-/\-SN-/\-

Dean watched the night turn gray, and then faintly pink as dawn approached. Clouds still covered thick, so the sun never really had much of a chance. He was still there as Sam's eyes opened again, bright with fear.

"Sammy?" He leaned forward.

It took him a few moments to remember where he was and let the panic fade. "Hey."

"How do you feel?"

Sam shifted up the pillows some and instantly knew it was a bad idea. "Like I was hit by a convoy of trucks." His voice was gritty and low, edged with pain.

"So, pretty good then?" Dean smiled.

He sighed, even smiled. "Jerk."

Slowly, painfully, Sam sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His face blanched from pain and he gripped the side of the bed to keep from falling.

Dean was on his feet in a second. "Where are you going?"

"I have to pee." Sarcasm pushed out the pain in Sam's voice. "I've been able to do that on my own since I was two."

"Well…" Dean smirked.

Sam let that one go and pushed himself to his feet. He wavered as the blood left his head, nearly blacked out and felt Dean's hand on his arm. He focused on slow breaths.

"I'm okay." He muttered.

"Right." Two could play at the sarcastic comment game.

Sam pulled his arm from his brother's grasp and unsteadily walked to the door. Dean stayed a few feet behind until Sam closed the door in his face. He leaned on the counter for a few minutes to catch his breath and let his balance fall in sync with the stillness of the floor. He wasn't entirely surprised to discover that the small acts of peeing and flushing nearly made him black out.

When he emerged from the bathroom, both John and Dean were standing in the hall. Sam sighed and tried to escape to his room.

"Sam." John met his son's eyes.

He leaned against the wall. "What?"

"When you're ready, I want to talk with you."

"I can do it now" He sighed and went to the living room.

Sam eased his battered body onto the couch and winced as the pain sharpened. He was still very pale, but his eyes were only a little blurred by pain and confusion. Dean sat across from him and John sat near Sam. He looked from his brother to his dad and then back again.

"Sam." John leaned forward, elbows on knees. "We need to talk about yesterday."

Dean wondered if his dad saw the quick flash of fear of John's disappointment in Sam's eyes.

"About what, exactly?" His voice cracked.

He took a breath. "About what happened in the crypt, how you got hurt."

Sam paused, his eyes on the floor. "I'm not entirely sure what happened." He was missing things, remembered mostly trying to hang onto his own control.

"Why did you go in?"

His eyes shot up, shock and confusion and pain. "You wanted me to, I had to." The words had a sharp edge.

"I never wanted you in danger."

"Right." Sam scoffed. "You've never made me go on a hunt, or anything. Those aren't dangerous at all."

"Sam." This was not the direction he wanted the conversation to go.

He swallowed. "You knew how it got into your head. I'm pretty sure you can figure out what happened in the crypt. And I didn't need your help."

"You would have died in there without my help." John never was very good at separating worry and anger.

Sam's jaw was set hard. "Then I guess I'm grateful." He stood too quick and grabbed the back of the couch.

"We're not done here."

"Well, I am." He turned and opened the front door, one arm held protectively around his chest.

John started after him, but Dean intercepted. "Let me get him."

Dean slipped out the door and found his brother leaned against the siding. Sam's hands were clenched tight and his face drawn and pale.

"Here to defend him?" The words were thick.

"Sam."

He leaned his head back, exhausted. "It's okay if you do, he likes you better anyway."

"You're wrong." He didn't expect that.

Sam sighed. "Usually am. I messed it up, Dean."

"What, yesterday?"

He nodded slightly. "Didn't do it right." His voice grew softer. "You would have."

Dean stepped into Sam's view. "I was thrown against a headstone. If that's the right way, then hell, I'll go the wrong way." He was aiming for a smile, but didn't get one. "Sammy."

"Sam." He corrected in a whisper.

"Sammy." Dean rested his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Yesterday didn't go according to anyone's plans and that was hardly your fault. You did good."

He closed his eyes, fought against the dizziness. "According to you."

"Well, my opinion is the only one I care about." Dean saw a faint smile. "Let's go back in. You look like you're about to pass out."

He took Sam's arm, but he resisted.

"Sam?"

"Don't know what to do." He muttered.

Dean sighed. "Let's start with pain pills and sleep."

The door opened and John stepped out. Sam glanced over before he locked his eyes on the ground.

"Sam." John's voice had lost the anger of a few minutes ago.

"M'sorry. I tried, I just…couldn't." He muttered.

Countless options of a response filtered through his mind, most of them were direct ways back into the conversation Sam walked out of. "Go back in the house, get some rest."

"Yes, sir." Sam slipped back inside.

John looked over at Dean. "I don't even know what happened."

"He thinks he failed you. That's what he always thinks."

"What?"

Dean shook his head. "He never does things the way you want him to."

"No arguing there." John managed a grim smile. "Just don't know what to do with him."

"I can't tell you what to do. Give him a little credit, maybe." Dean went back inside.

He found Sam stretched out on his bed, already half asleep. Dean slipped his brother a pain pill and a glass of water. Sam took it gratefully and sunk into the pillow.

"You feeling okay?"

He smirked a little. "Just great." He paused. "Is there a truce?"

"For a little while." Dean smiled. "Dad just doesn't know what to do with girls."

Sam glared at his brother, but there was a smile under it. "Jerk."

"That the best you can do?"

He paused, then smiled wickedly. "In civility thou seem'st so empty." He paused. "Shakespeare, I'd tell you to look it up, but there are no pictures."

"God, you're a dork. You should be thankful I let you associate with me in public."

Sam was fighting sleep. "I could say the same." He muttered. "How'd you know it got me?" He asked with his eyes closed.

"Cause you willingly followed dad's orders." The 'duh' at the end of the sentence was implied in the tone.

He smiled. "I guess that was pretty obvious." He took a breath, serious. "Thanks."

"Shut up. We don't do chick-flick moments." He tossed a blanket over his brother. "Get some sleep, Samantha."

"'kay." He sighed and let himself disappear in unconsciousness.

At least things were close to normal. Sam was getting back his smart-ass remarks, he and John were at odds, and Dean was back in the middle of it. Maybe he didn't mind it so much, given the alternative that almost was.


End file.
